War Bonds
by T. Z. Townshend
Summary: In time, Sherlock Holmes would come to believe that the only thing truly good that had come out of his being drafted and put in the RAF was meeting Molly Hooper. WW2 AU.
1. Call to Arms

**A/N: I've had this sitting on my computer for awhile and since Benedict Cumberbatch and Loo Brealey did that letter reading at the Hay Festival, I've felt a responsibility to get this chapter done an published. By the way, a massive thank you to the lovely ladies who encouraged me to do this AU idea all those months ago in the Sherlolly Chat. I hope this meets your expectations.**

**WARNING: This chapter contains a warfare sequence.**

Chapter 1: Call to Arms

He knew it was coming the moment Germany took the Sudetenland. He couldn't resist giving people that 'I told you so' look on September 3rd, 1939 (a date that would be burned in his memory forever). He'd been planning to go off to London and start a career as a consulting detective when it happened. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard had already agreed to let him in on cases. That was dashed when Lestrade joined the Royal Air Force.

Even with everyone he knew getting involved in the fight, Sherlock Holmes was determined to stay out of it. His brother, Mycroft, a member of the British government, wanted desperately for him to enlist.

"Britain doesn't need detectives right now, Sherlock. It needs soldiers, pilots, and seamen," he'd said condescendingly to his nineteen year old little brother that Christmas. The boy rolled his eyes and crossed his outstretched legs in irritation.

"I'm not a warrior, brother. I don't want to fight. I don't want honor or glory or any of that nonsense."

"Do you want people to think you're a coward?"

"I don't care what people think!" Sherlock snapped, his temper rattled. "People can think me a coward all they like, but it doesn't make them right."

"If you won't think of yourself, think of our parents. Think of what a disgrace it would be for them to have a coward for a son," Mycroft replied coolly. The younger Holmes glared furiously back, his body suddenly going very still.

"This isn't about them. They don't want me to go if I don't have to. No, this is about you and how you look to your superiors." His voice was perfectly calm, but it somehow seemed to convey an anger even greater than shouting ever could. Abruptly, he stood up from his chair. "If you want me enlisted so badly, why don't you go have my draft number called?" As he stormed out of the room, he didn't think Mycroft would actually do it, but he did.

Two days before his twentieth birthday, Sherlock was called to fight. He shipped off to London and they put him in the RAF as a group captain under Air Commodore Lestrade (there came certain advantages to being a brilliant posh kid with a brother in the government). At first, they had extreme difficulty getting him to be disciplined, but eventually they did persuade him to salute and address superiors as 'sir' (except for Lestrade, but the man let it slide). Even then, he did it with an underlying layer of sarcasm. Many under his command grew fond of him, but nearly everyone else came to dislike him. They hated his cheekiness, his seeming ability to know everything about someone just by looking at them, and how he managed to turn the head of almost every woman he passed while in his formal uniform.

"Lookin' sharp, sir!" a warrant officer called to him on his way off base. He smirked, but didn't look around as he answered.

"Carry on, Wiggins."

He was off to meet his mother at a restaurant for what could potentially be his last proper dinner. In her letter, she'd promised that Mycroft wouldn't be there, which was her way of begging him to come see her before they told him to fly somewhere and get shot at. She looked rather stunned when she first laid eyes on Sherlock in his uniform. She seemed quite affronted that they'd forced him to cut and tame his black curls. Instead of the unruly mop he'd sported since he was small, they'd fixed him with a prim and proper side part and now he looked unrecognizable from the back.

"For goodness sake, mother. Will you stop going on about the hair? It'll go back the way it was when the war is over," Sherlock grumbled after swallowing a bit of potato. His mother stared at him for a moment and seemed to grow quite sad. He could tell she was thinking about the 'if'. He didn't like thinking about the if. "I know how to fly a plane and shoot things, mother. I'll be fine." This did very little to console the woman and the rest of their meal was given a gloomy atmosphere. When it was time to say goodbye, she kissed him on the cheek and gave him a tight hug right there in the posh restaurant for everyone to see. He hadn't expected it. This wasn't his mother's typical behaviour. Perhaps the idea that her dear Sherlock, who was really still only a boy, was going off to fight and might be killed was affecting her more deeply than she was letting on.

"Promise you'll write," she ordered when he held open the door to her cab for her.

"Of course. Goodbye, mother." He wasn't usually a sentimental person, but closing that door felt like the end of something significant. He watched her cab go, still with that odd feeling inside him, and stepped back from the curb...to bump right into a young woman carrying her shopping. She was so small and her center of gravity was so altered by the things she carried that she fell right over. Immediately, he helped her to her feet and began picking up the things that had spilled from her bags. He paused when his hand closed around a pair of books. One was on chemistry and the other on anatomy. His keen gaze turned to look at the young woman more closely as he stood to hand her her books.

"Sorry! I should've- you don't need to- oh!" she babbled and then gasped as she caught sight of Sherlock's face.

"You're a nurse," he commented. For a moment she just gazed back at him in astonishment and awe. Slowly, she took the books he held out to her and tucked a loose brown lock behind her ear.

"I-I am. And y-you're a pilot. A...a group captain. B-but that's...that's obvious. How do you know I'm a nurse?" the young woman stuttered and Sherlock couldn't help but smirk.

"I can tell by your books and your hair and the way you hold yourself." The young woman gaped back at him, thoroughly impressed and enraptured. That wasn't the reaction he was expecting. He was expecting a slap hard across the face and a few angry words before she went off in a huff, but that wasn't what happened.

"That's...amazing." Sherlock froze. This was _definitely_ not what he was anticipating.

"You think so?"

"Why wouldn't I?" The question produced an entirely unfamiliar sensation in Sherlock's stomach and caused his response to be impulsive.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he told her with a curt bow of the head (he couldn't shake her had as hers were both full).

"Molly Hooper. Pleased to meet you."

"Aren't you going to ask how your books, hair, and posture tell me that you're a nurse?"

"Do most people ask when know who they are just by looking?"

"Yes and then they leave angrily."

"I'm afraid I must disappoint you there, Group Captain Holmes. I can see how you figured me out," Molly replied with a soft giggle. "I guess I'm not most people. I've...I've always been strange." She was clearly embarrassed by this and Sherlock surmised that she had been bullied as a child.

"Not strange. Just different." He gave her a proper smile now and it made Molly's knees go wobbly. He was quite possibly the most charming man she'd ever had the pleasure of meeting. "It's late and you're carrying things. I'll walk you home."

"Oh no, it's fine, really. You don't have to."

"My mother would be very cross indeed if she learnt that I let a young woman walk home alone, especially at night, especially a nurse. I insist." He wasn't just doing what he'd been taught to do. He wanted to learn more about this unusual person. She clearly wasn't just a nurse. The chemistry book she had was one he also owned, one that wasn't necessarily geared towards pharmaceutical applications. Obviously she had greater scientific aspirations than those of a typical nurse. The idea that he'd found a kindred spirit excited him and made him eager to help her.

"Oh...alright then." Molly responded nervously. He continued to smile as the began walking in what Sherlock assumed was the direction of her home.

"You are a scientific woman, are you not, Ms. Hooper?"

"I-I suppose so...I mean, yes, yes, I am."

"What is your area of interest?"

"Er, pathology, mostly. Forensic pathology." Sherlock's blue eyes lit up at this. How wonderful that he should by chance meet someone whose personality and interests aligned so complimentarily to his own. How cruel that he should have so little time to speak with her.

"Death interests you?" he asked, being sure to sound pleasant enough not to give her impression that she'd put him off. She gave him a shy nod in reply. "Then perhaps it would please you to hear that before the war, I was going to become a detective."

"Oh, that's lovely! I'd bet everything I have that you'd be brilliant at it." There it was, that fluttering feeling in his stomach again. He couldn't decide whether it was pleasant or horrid, all he knew was that Molly Hooper thought he was brilliant. Not a wanker. Not a freak. And they'd only just met. Perhaps he was fooling himself. Perhaps she'd learn to hate him if she got to know him better. For those reasons, it was probably best that their meeting was to be so short.

He brought her to the door of her flat and she handed him one of her bags so she could unlock the door.

"Wait here a moment," she requested as she went inside. He looked in curiously, trying to learn more about her. This wasn't her flat. She wouldn't be able afford it on her own. She wasn't married; there was no ring on her finger. All signs pointed to father. Before he could deduce anything else, Molly reappeared and took her other bag off his hands. "Thank you, sir. You've been very kind to me."

"It was no trouble. It's not often I encounter a like minded individual," Sherlock replied casually. Molly stood on her tiptoes to press a tender kiss to his cheek.

"Good luck, Group Captain Holmes. I hope we meet again someday," Molly told the young man and he understood that the subtext of her words was 'I hope with all my heart that you aren't killed'. That struck him on a deep level that no one had been able to even touch for a very long time. It excited and terrified him simultaneously.

"Goodbye, Ms. Hooper. I will remember you." With a last tip of his hat, he dashed out of the building as quickly as possible so as not to give himself a moment to change his mind, because a part of him wanted to go inside that young woman's home and sit close to her all through the night, discussing everything from crime to music while he examined her small hands. He supposed that was near his equivalent to wanting to sleep with someone. He couldn't do it. They were both better off as they were, so he left with nothing but the memory of her locked away in a corner of his vast mind.

* * *

Now it just seemed like routine, sliding into the cockpit of his Spitfire. He didn't really think about the fact that he might be going to his death at this point. It was just another day, just another mission. Today it was Operation Dynamo. They were sending him off to Dunkirk to defend the sea and ground forces there. When it got right down to it, it didn't matter to him what they were ordering him to attack or defend. He just did his duty knowing that it brought the war one step closer to an end. Fear stopped registering with him once he'd flown a few missions. There was nothing but the thrill of the dogfight, airplanes performing a deadly dance through the sky. He'd locked everything else out in his mind. He didn't need anything else. Wouldn't Mycroft be so proud? This Sherlock was his creation, after all. His creation which now flew to the shores of France, to Dunkirk, to be the ultra efficient killing machine they'd made of him.

They didn't tell Sherlock that it was going to be hell. Everything was fire and smoke and death. He didn't let it get to him. He flew on and trained his guns on every Bf 109 that dared challenge him. He could feel the blood rushing through his veins as he pulled up in time to score his fifth hit. The Luftwaffe plane caught fire and dived through a cloud of billowing black smoke to plant itself rather destructively in the ground below. The men would start calling him an ace after this, but it didn't matter to him. He didn't even think about it. He only searched for another enemy to engage. Before he could target another unfortunate Bf 109 pilot to dance with, he suddenly found himself hit. He'd taken fire from an unforeseen direction. There was scarcely any time for him to react before he'd lost control of his Spitfire and was hurling in a dizzying spiral towards the beach.

The next thing Sherlock knew, he was barely conscious and he could feel himself being lifted and dragged. There came a sudden jerking motion and a cry of anguish, but Sherlock was carried on. Vaguely, he registered the sounds of men shouting, various explosions, and gunfire. Shapes and colors swam before his eyes before he completely passed out.

* * *

At first, when they brought him in, she thought she was going to be horribly sick, but she calmed herself and did her job. He wasn't dying on her watch.

They cleaned him up and treated his wounds and broken limbs. He had been extremely lucky and hadn't sustained any permanent injuries.

When her shift was over, she stayed and sat at his bedside, gazing at his haunted features.

"You know him?" one of her fellow nurses, Mary Morstan, asked.

"I met him once a few months ago. I've been thinking about him every day since," she answered, reaching out to brush an errant curl from his eyes. He didn't look like the boy she'd remembered. There were dark circles around his eyes and a pale clamminess to his skin. It was as if he'd become a ghost.

"I'm not shocked. I wouldn't forget a face like that in a hurry either." Mary smiled cheekily.

"He was very sweet to me."

"I'll bet he was," Mary responded with a wink and Molly blushed furiously.

"I-It wasn't like that!" she blurted out, although there was no denying that part of her wished it had been like that. Sherlock Holmes was the first man to ever take notice of her for her brain instead of her body and as a result, she was even more attracted to him than she otherwise would be. "I'd have married him on the spot if he'd asked me, though," she confessed quietly. Mary gaped at her.

"Molly Hooper, I'm surprised at you. You've always been such a sensible girl. I'd have thought you'd never let yourself get swept off your feet like that. What makes Group Captain Sherlock Holmes so special?" Mary was being a lot more serious now. She was rather sensitive to the changes in behaviour in other people. When Molly had pointed this out, Mary had told her that one needed to pay attention to those sorts of things, especially as a nurse in war time. It could save a patient's life, she said.

"He didn't think I was strange for studying pathology," Molly answered sheepishly. Mary continued to stare at her for a long moment, making the brunette nurse uneasy.

"He's one in a million, Molly. Ask him to marry you the moment he wakes up."

"_Mary._"

"I'm serious. You can't let this one just pass you by."

"He barely even knows me, Mary. Even if I asked him, he'd say no." Molly might be sweet on Sherlock Holmes, but she was a realist. "Besides, it's hardly fair to spring a proposal on him when he's just woken up in hospital after a terrible battle." She scanned her eyes over his body again, feeling her heart ache at all the bandages and casts. None of it was permanent. She knew that, but seeing him like this was still heartbreaking.

"Let him get to know you then. I can make sure they don't take him off your list or anything." Mary was dead serious. Molly could see it in her blue eyes and started to get a little bit teary at the knowledge that she had such a great friend.

"Thanks, Mary."

"You're welcome, dear. I just want you to be happy and any bloke who likes women who love science is well worth the effort." This brought a grin to Molly's face and she watched silently as her friend finished her shift by checking up on the man in the next bed over, who had apparently been the one to drag Group Captain Holmes from the wreck of his plane. He'd taken a bullet to the shoulder and lost a lot of blood. "This one's a looker, isn't he? Captain John Watson's his name. He's a medic. Risked life and limb to save your beau." The look Mary got from her colleague at this comment made her laugh again. "I'm allowed to set my sights on someone, aren't I? Goodnight, Molly."

"Night, Mary." Molly watch her friend go before turning her attention to the pilot in the bed beside her. She couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't foolish to hope for anything between them. Maybe it was destiny that had brought him back to her.

**A/N: There you are. I'll try to get another chapter up as soon as possible. I hope you like it.**


	2. Reset

**A/N: I'm sorry that this took so long. Such is life when you've got so many WIPs going at once. I hope this is worth the wait.**

**WARNING: This chapter contains depression and war related trauma as well as a bit of violence.**

Chapter 2: Reset

Sherlock eased his eyes open and blinked a few times to get rid of the blurriness in his vision. His whole body felt as if it were made of lead and everything ached. It registered vaguely in his mind that he was in hospital and that there was someone there with him.

"Hello, group captain. How are you feeling?" That voice was eerily familiar and after a moment he remembered Molly Hooper. She was there before his very eyes and he could hardly believe it.

"Am I dead?" he asked, his voice coming out raspy and slurred. If he was seeing Molly Hooper, he was either in some kind of afterlife or he was hallucinating. There was no way that he could have just happened to have landed himself in the hospital where she worked.

"No," she replied with a giggle. "You are on the tail end of some painkillers, though."

"Mm, that explains it..."

"Explains what?"

"Why you're here, of course." The woman frowned at him, her nose scrunching a little. For some reason, that made him want to smile. "I suppose as far as hallucinations go, this is rather...mild." He'd meant to say nice, but even his sluggish mind could reason that nice wasn't generally something one should call a hallucination.

"Sir, you're not hallucinating. I'm actually here. I'm your nurse." Sherlock didn't respond to this for a long while, instead choosing to let his mind clear a little more before he determined her reality for himself. Steadily, the fog in his head lifted and the dull ache of his body became more noticeable. He could see that he was covered in bandages and his left arm and leg were in casts. With the exertion of considerable effort, he was able to reach out with his right hand and touch Nurse Hooper's hip. She was solid and therefore real. She almost jumped at his touch and her already large brown eyes went as wide as saucers. Instead of moving out of his reach, though, she took his hand and placed it at his side. He noted that her fingers were small, thin, and rather cold against his own. "How are you feeling?" she repeated with a small smile.

"Like I crashed a plane," he responded with a cheeky smirk, but once he really thought about what had happened, his expression faded into one of blank eyed, abject discomfort. "No...that's not quite right..." He spoke more to himself than to the nurse, but she had her full attention on him. "Friendly fire." The words came out firmer and clearer than anything else he'd said thus far. Nurse Hooper seemed shocked and horrified and rightly so.

"You...you were shot down by one of ours? Are you sure?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper as she sat down on the edge of his bed and leaned closer to him.

"Yes," he answered solemnly. There was no other possible explanation. He remembered clearly having his eyes peeled for enemy aircraft in every direction from which they might come at him. He'd taken a hit from behind, where his fellow RAF pilots had been.

"Oh my God. We have to tell someone." On reflex, Sherlock's hand shot out to close tightly on Nurse Hooper's thin wrist.

"No," he said sternly, ignoring the shooting fire of pain in his arm as he constricted his grip. She gave him a bewildered, questioning look in return. "It's far too risky." Anyone who was capable of gunning him down was worth being cautious about. If his superiors learnt that an RAF pilot was responsible for his crash, there would be inquiries and it wouldn't take long for the guilty party to realize he hadn't been killed, which would result in not only the covering of their tracks but the high possibility that they'd come to finish the job. Fortunately, Nurse Hooper seemed to understand this and gave him a little nod. He released her wrist from his grasp and let out a heavy, wheezing sigh.

"Do you want more morphine?"

"No, but I'd like to write a letter." Hooper smiled at him again and happily scrounged up a pen and paper for him. Using his leg cast as a writing surface, he scribbled in large lettering: 'Dear Mycroft, HAPPY NOW?' and then promptly handed the paper back to his nurse. "Please address that to Mycroft Holmes at the Diogenes Club in London and send it on its merry way," he told her, paying no mind to her scowl. Clearly she didn't approve of wasting paper and the time of postal workers to say something so short and rude, but he knew she would send it for him anyway.

Sherlock lay there in silence for a long time, thinking and barely even noticing Hooper's activities. He felt an awful sort of ache in his chest that wasn't connected with his injuries. For what seemed like hours, he wandered his mind palace, trying to figure out the problem. Eventually, the answer came creeping in before him. He'd lost his purpose. He was a warrior without a weapon, trapped inside a broken body and tied to a hospital bed. What use was he now? He couldn't be the only thing he knew how to be.

"You all right there, mate?" the man in the bed to his left asked. He was a short, blond fellow in his mid twenties with a sturdy build and a heavily bandaged left shoulder, a bullet wound most likely. Sherlock slowly turned his head to stare at him. "Captain John Watson. I, er, I pulled you from your Spitfire, or at least what was left of it."

"You need not concern yourself with me any further. You've done enough," Sherlock replied coolly, but Watson persisted.

"Listen, I know you don't want to talk to me and things are probably pretty hard for you right now, but I just want to tell you that I know what happened and I want to help if I can. Say the word and I'm there." This fully grabbed Sherlock's attention. This man was different.

"Thank...you." He didn't really know what else to say.

* * *

Things weren't exactly the way Molly had expected them to be after Sherlock woke for the first time since his crash. He was healing up just fine, but he always seemed to have a shadow hanging over him that definitely had not been there when they'd first met. He didn't like talking much and he tended to be unnecessarily terse with people who tried to make small talk with him. He seemed to remember who she was, which was nice, but he didn't appear to care very much about it and so she didn't dare approach the topic with him. To show him that he was more to her than just another patient, she brought him books and periodicals and even stayed past her shift a couple of times to read to him from the books which were too large and heavy for him to hold in his current state. He seemed to appreciate it, but she had no way of knowing that for certain. The sweet young man she'd encounter all those months ago was almost gone, and yet she still loved him, even when he was rude to her. The way his beautiful eyes, so full of intelligence, would scan everything around him in curiosity and how his snide remarks about the things she read to him made her laugh only made his place in her heart grow.

At the same time, he would often break her heart, not because of anything off colour that fell from his tongue, but because of the way he looked when he thought no one was watching. Sometimes when Molly came in to start her shift in the morning, she would peek through the glass in the door of the ward and see him lying awake in his bed, a look of deep depression on his sallow features. The moment she opened the door, he would school his face into an unreadable mask and it made her want to hold him and cry. She didn't dare bring up what she had seen with him. It was doubtful that he would ever want to discuss it. However, she was forced to mention it when his health began to worsen.

Sherlock's was soon starting to refuse food and sleeping less and less. It was frightening Molly, especially when he stopped being interested in the books she brought for him. He would just lie there, looking like a ghost. Eventually, he wouldn't even talk to her more than was absolutely necessary.

"Sir, you really must eat something or we'll have to force feed you," she informed him after what must have been the sixth time he'd turned away from a tray she had offered.

"You might as well. I haven't the stomach for that slop on my own," he replied sharply without even turning his head back to look at her as he spoke.

"Why?" Molly could see in the twitch of Sherlock's thick eyebrows that he had not expected this question.

"I seem to have lost the energy for it." It was pretty clear to her that he wasn't talking about physical energy, although she did imagine that he was lacking plenty of that these days.

"Group captain...please tell me what's wrong."

"I just did."

"No, I don't just mean about your absence of appetite. I've seen you when you think no one is watching. Something is plaguing you and I need you to tell me what it is so that I can help you." Molly reached out and smoothed Sherlock's hair, trying to turn the short, dark mess into something that more resembled the way that he had looked when they had first met.

"I sincerely doubt that there is anything you can do to help me, unless you've got a miracle cure and the name of the man who shot me down hidden somewhere under your dress," he responded testily, closing his eyes at the feeling of Molly carding her fingers through his hair. She could tell that he was going to get very nasty, very quickly if she continued to press him, but she had a duty as his nurse and the woman who loved him to help him.

"You're feeling useless, aren't you?" That question grabbed the pilot's attention. "I know bit about what that's like."

"Really? I never knew you were drafted, turned into a killing machine, and sent to hell to be shot down and then dragged, barely alive, back to some hospital to eek out a miserable existence chained to a poor excuse for a bed. All that and you're working now. You are a remarkable woman, Nurse Hooper. You must truly understand my position." Sherlock's words were utterly dripping with sarcasm and Molly couldn't help but be a little hurt at the way he was sneering at her. Nevertheless, her natural sympathy got the better of her since she knew that he was only doing this because she'd touched an emotional sore spot. He'd told her rather a lot about what he was feeling in his anger and was probably deeply regretting ever opening his mouth right about now, so she simply placed her hand gently over his heart to let him know that she wasn't upset and still wanted to help him. She remained silent, knowing that he would be feeling the need to do some deep thinking, and continued on with her duties quietly.

Molly stayed for Sherlock long after her shift was over that night, longer than she ever had before. She was determined to see him sleep. Once he did that, she could feel assured that he might get better. Unfortunately, he was having a tough go of it, even though the ward was dark and the on duty nurses only came in every so often to check up on their patients, so there was no noise to really bother him. She started to read him _Treasure Island_ and for the first time in days, it actually seemed like he was listening. Who knew that it would only take a bit of fiction to pique his interest?

Not that far along, Molly vaguely registered the sound of the door to the ward opening. She assumed that it was just a nurse, so she didn't even pause in her reading. As such, she was not prepared for when the privacy curtains surrounding Sherlock's bed were pulled back and a darkly clad figure bore down upon the prone pilot. Molly caught the gleam of a knife in the dim light and jumped up to defend her patient, grabbing the assailant's wrist and throwing the book in their face before aiming her knee at their groin. They jumped back, wrenching themselves from her grasp to make a wide swipe with their knife, poorly aimed due to their still recovering from a heavy book to the face. Molly cried out at the blade slashing her upper arm, but she kept her protective stance over Sherlock's bed. By now, it was clear that the attacker was a muscular man, but his face was almost entirely covered in shadow. All Molly could see clearly of him was a cold blue eye and a long, thin scar.

"I will not let you touch him," Molly growled and the assassin gave no verbal response, only lunging for Sherlock once again. He tried to shove the young nurse aside, but she nimbly reached around and pinched the back of his neck as hard as she could, her fingernails digging into his flesh. He yowled in pain and swung his knife at her once more, but she knocked it from his grasp. Angrily, he closed both of his calloused hands around Molly's neck and attempted to choke her. She could not call out and she was not strong enough to pry his fingers from her throat.

"HELP! HELP!" Sherlock suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs and the attacker threw Molly against the wall before he bolted from the ward. A moment later, all the lights came on and multiple hospital staff members burst into the ward. Many of the other patients looked disgruntled, confused, and/or afraid and most of the medical personnel dispersed to address their concerns. "Ms. Hooper..." There was a thin layer of detectable anxiety in Sherlock's voice as he moved himself as best as he could to try and look at the nurse. She was sprawled on the floor and so he probably could only see part of her. A fellow nurse helped her to her feet before she shook her off.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," she insisted.

"You're bleeding profusely," Sherlock remarked, sounding rather urgent. The other nurse's eyes went wide with alarm and she guided Molly into the chair beside the bed.

"That's going to need stitches. I'll be right back." This gave Molly a moment with Sherlock.

"Are you alright?" she asked and she was met with an expression that plainly convey that he couldn't believe she was more concerned about him when she was the one with the gaping wound.

"Don't worry about me. I'm unharmed. You suffered injury on my behalf, which is what's worth discussing."

"Group Captain Holmes, I-"

"Sherlock. Please," the pilot corrected, stunning Molly into silence. Before she could come up with a suitable response, the other nurse was back with the necessary items for making stitches. As Molly sat there getting her arm sewn up, she listened to Sherlock give his account of what had happened to someone else. She noticed him occasionally stealing glances at her, as if he was checking to make sure that she was still there. It quickly occurred to Molly that their relationship had changed in some small way. He wanted her to call him by his given name and he looked at her differently now. That thought made her heart flutter.

"Why did someone sneak in here and try to kill you?" she asked him once the other staff members stopped fussing and went back to their stations.

"Whoever tried to shoot me down knows that I'm alive and wants to finish the job. Obviously he did not anticipate that you would be here to protect me." The ghost of a smile played across his full lips at that last sentence and Molly blushed, looking down at her lap.

"I was just doing my duty," she murmured.

"Long past the end of your shift," Sherlock added, his icy eyes glittering with what she could only assume was gratitude. Before she could give another modest reply, something caught her attention at the corner of her vision. It was the knife lying partially concealed under the bed. She picked it up and examined it, finding the letters 'S.M.' carved into the wooden handle.

"Sherlock-"

"Quickly! Hide it under the mattress!" Sherlock hissed and Molly hastily obeyed, knowing as she did so that she was bound to this man now by her involvement in his danger and secrets. The pain of her stitched up arm was nothing compared to the thrill of that realization.

* * *

Things between Molly and her patient changed more than she had anticipated. After that night, he was much warmer with her and he even properly smiled at her again. His health improved a great deal. He began to eat and sleep unaided and would eagerly engage Molly in conversation. It was like he had bounced back from whatever low he had been experiencing before. When Mary Morstan found out that he and Molly were on a first name basis, she grinned and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, reminding Molly of that underlying desire she had to be Sherlock's wife, but the time for exploring those thoughts wasn't right. If she was honest, she wasn't sure the time would ever be right. She found out for certain his feelings on relationships during one of his brighter afternoons following the attempted murder.

"I know your family are very busy people, so I can see why they'd not come visit you, but haven't you got dear friends or a lovely wife?" Molly asked after Sherlock had backhandedly thanked her for spending so much extra time with him. He quirked his dark eyebrows at her in bewilderment.

"You think someone like me would have a wife?"

"Why not? You're brilliant and handsome and you walk around in an RAF officer's uniform. One would think that such a combination would be something like a siren call."

"Women tend to flock away from me once they've actually met me. Besides, what they think hardly matters if I...if I don't...feel that urge..." Sherlock seemed to be struggling to define himself, but Molly understood. A friend of hers in school had been much the same way.

"Oh! I'm sorry. I should have realized. That's perfectly alright."

"You don't think there's anything medically wrong with me?" There was definitely astonishment in that question and Molly gave him one of her warm smiles.

"Of course not." The look he fixed her with then was like he saw some majestic unicorn before him. To others, his appreciation would be undetectable, but she had learnt to read the tiniest changes in his expression and she could see in the way he appeared to light up, his eyes widening ever so slightly, that he was surprised and overjoyed by her words. She would have blushed if she had thought it meant anything for her. Now she knew that it was unlikely that he'd ever want to marry her. It would be better for the both of them if she moved on.

"You're a singular woman, Molly Hooper," Sherlock told her and despite the high praise, her heart ached. Maybe getting over him wasn't going to happen. She was too in love.


	3. A New Beginning

**A/N: I'm really sorry that it took so long for me to update this. I hope this makes up for the wait.**

Chapter 3: A New Beginning

After the attempt on Sherlock's life, it was almost as if he had returned to being the man Molly had met that night in the street. He was friendly to her and though he was still sometimes rude (she suspected he did not know better), he was clearly on the mend. He was going to need a little bit of physical therapy to get the stiffness out of his leg, but other than that, he would reach full recovery soon.

Captain Watson, who had been discharged from the hospital some time ago and had since written letters to Sherlock in friendship, came to visit one day, which was a pleasant surprise (especially for Nurse Morstan).

"How're you getting on, Holmes?" he greeted, striding over to Sherlock's bed as the dark haired young man nibbled experimentally at the corner of piece of toast from his breakfast tray.

"Better," Sherlock answered after looking up.

"I heard what happened. It was the same person from before who did it, wasn't it?" The pilot raised his thick eyebrows in pleased surprise at this. He hadn't expected John to be quite so perceptive.

"Yes. Or someone allied with him."

"Does anyone else know that?"

"Only Mol- Nurse Hooper." Sherlock had to stop himself from referring to Molly by first name in front of people who might misinterpret their relationship, although sometimes he wondered if it would be a misinterpretation. He felt unfamiliar things towards Molly that he had never experienced with anyone else, warm feelings that he didn't dare to examine too closely. He had always thought the idea of him being in love was ridiculous. After all, wasn't one supposed to experience the desire to make love to the object of such affections? That wasn't something that happened to him. And yet here he was, wanting everything romantic with her short of sex, which ruled out the idea that this was some sort of platonic pull he was feeling. It was a problem, a horrendously confusing problem, and he was by no means prepared to share it with Captain Watson.

"She's been looking after you rather fiercely, hasn't she?"

"Yes. Why, I'll never know."

"Why? Good lord, man. Everyone who's watched her with you can see that she's in love with you." Sherlock froze, his mouth hanging open slightly. It was illogical. Why would Molly love him when she knew that he couldn't make her happy? His mind's snarky response to that question was to remind him that he hadn't been able to get her out of his head, so he could hardly expect her to be able to keep him out of hers. Still, John had to be wrong. It just didn't make sense. He could accept that Molly cared about him, but loved? No, not him. Impossible.

"Is that so?" Sherlock replied slowly but with clear sarcasm. John picked up on the denial in his eyes, apparently, because he had a lot to say in response.

"She _does_ love you and don't you dare sit there and tell me that you don't feel the same way about her. You make eyes at her whenever she's not looking and every time I see it, it honestly makes me feel like I've walked in on you snogging her."

"I don't 'make eyes at her'! I observe her, just as I observe others," Sherlock objected and Watson gave out a wry laugh.

"Right. I'm fairly sure you don't look at other people like you'd let them do unmentionable things to you. Don't try to deny it. I can get Mary Morstan to back me up on this," the medic countered. Having grown particularly uncomfortable at this conversation, Sherlock jumped at the first chance to change the subject.

"Speaking of which, you'll be pleased to know that Nurse Morstan will be coming in shortly. She'll say yes."

"Sorry?"

"Your proposal. That's the other reason you came today, is it not? You keep feeling your trouser pocket, probably to make sure the little box in there hasn't disappeared. She'll say yes, I'm sure, given how much she seems to talk about the letters you've sent with Hooper." John gaped at this and as if on cue, Nurse Morstan came through the door of the ward. The medic grinned the moment he saw her.

"Oh! Hello, captain. I didn't expect to see you here today," the blonde beamed.

"Hi, Mary," John began nervously. "Can I ask you something? It's important."

"Sure. Anything," the nurse replied coyly and John bent down on one knee, right there in front of Sherlock's bed. The other patients went quiet and craned their necks to see what was going on as John presented a nurse with a ring.

"Mary Elizabeth Morstan, will you marry me?"

"Yes, yes. Of course. Yes," she answered with barely contained joy and excitement. Her eyes began to shine with happy tears as John slid the ring onto her finger. She hugged him tightly and the patients cheered and clapped.

"I told you," Sherlock commented casually and the couple laughed.

"I'm sorry. I've got to go now," John whispered when they stepped back from each other.

"Will I see you tonight?" Mary asked hopefully.

"Yeah." After placing a quick kiss on his fiancée's cheek, John said his farewells and went on his way, leaving Sherlock figure out how to approach a particular topic with Nurse Morstan that only she could help him navigate.

"Miss Morstan?" he said, his tone uncharacteristically full of uncertainty.

"Yes?"

"There are two things I am certain you understand better than I do: emotions and women. I'd be grateful if you'd share some of your insights with me so that I can proceed with a personal matter."

"Is this about Molly?" Mary Morstan could always be relied upon to get down to the point quickly, although this time it was slightly disorienting for Sherlock.

"...yes," he managed after a long moment.

"Then I already know what your trouble is and how to address it."

"You...do?" Sherlock frowned in confusion.

"Tell Molly that you love her," Mary instructed him confidently, which unfortunately only added to his frustration.

"But I don't have the desire to have sex with her," he blurted out, gesticulating emphatically, and Mary raised her eyebrows as he turned slightly pink upon realizing what he'd just said.

"That in no way means that you aren't in love with her, Mr. Holmes," she told him calmly. "Romance takes many forms and not all of them include wanting to jump into bed with someone."

"I can't make her happy," Sherlock uttered quietly, fixing his gaze shamefully on his breakfast tray. Mary sat down on the edge of his bed and gently placed her hand on his shoulder.

"I think you should let her be the judge of that." Her tone was sympathetic, but firm, and he managed to meet his blue gaze with hers before giving a small nod. "If you don't need anything else, I'd like to do my rounds now." She adjusted her hold on her clipboard and started to get up, but Sherlock stopped her.

"Actually, there is one more thing. I need you to bring me a particular item."

* * *

Molly couldn't deny that she was sad that Sherlock would be leaving soon. She was glad that he would be fully recovered, to be sure, but no longer being with him day after day would be like sitting in a large, windowless room with only two lights in it and watching the nearest one flicker and go out. Still, she bore the eventuality with her customary calm and grace, even when he got a letter notifying him that he was to report for duty soon after being released from the hospital.

"My brother pulling strings again," he grumbled to her as he folded the letter and set on his bedside table.

"I'm sorry," Molly said sympathetically before gesturing for him to sit up so she could more easily shave his face. It was then that she noticed something peeking out from behind the end of his mattress. "What's this?" She retrieved a black velvet ring box and a strange sensation washed over her. She showed the object to Sherlock, making a silent demand for an explanation.

"It's for you," he told her, suddenly very quiet. Molly stared in disbelief.

"I don't understand."

"I want you to marry me, Molly."

"But I thought...I thought..."

"Everything you've learned about me is still true. Are you okay with that?" The question hung in the air as Molly continued to stare while Sherlock watched her nervously. Slowly, she opened the box and gazed down at the ring inside. It was a beautifully ornate silver band and she had never seen anything like it. The idea that Sherlock loved her finally registered in her brain and made her heart feel like it was preparing to explode.

"A thousand times, yes," she answered, slipping the ring onto her finger. "I love you, Sherlock." The grin that spread across his face in reaction was unlike any she had seen him wear before. It was bright and genuine and Molly felt as if all was as it should be.

"Hey, is everybody around here getting married? Get me to a phone, I need to call my girl," one of the other patients called out.

"Stuff it, Wilkes," Sherlock shot back.

When she set about shaving him, the touches which had once been purely clinical suddenly seemed rather intimate. Her fingers lingered as they traced his jawline and judging by the look on his face, he enjoyed it very much.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked after she wiped the remnants of shaving cream from his face. The question made him sound like a nervous school boy. The innocence of it was quite a contrast to the fact that he was an RAF pilot who had seen the horrors of war. Molly knew better than to be amused by it. Sherlock was barely a man at twenty and he'd been sent off to kill people before he even knew what love felt like.

"Of course," Molly told him, bending over to press her lips softly against his. A few of the other patients whistled loudly and it was Molly's turn to glare. She roughly pulled across the privacy curtain and heard a few laughs and lewd comments. "I'd like to have a moment with my future husband without an audience, thank you very much," she muttered indignantly.

"It's no use. They'll still gossip. They've nothing better to do, apparently." Sherlock gave her a small smile and she sighed, knowing that he was right. She leaned down to kiss him again, now knowing that they would not be interrupted. He tried to hold her, but his casts hindered him. "This will all be easier tomorrow when I get my casts off," he commented when she pulled back from him.

"Yes, but in the meantime, I'll do everything I can to accommodate you." Molly gave him a sweet smile and brushed her fingers down his cheek.

"You are a blessing upon this earth, Molly Hooper."

"Careful. If you say too many nice things about me, I might think you're having me on," the nurse teased and Sherlock let out a hearty laugh.

"Oh dear. What must I do to make you trust my sincerity?"

"How about you take me on a date as soon as you're out of here?" Molly suggested slyly.

"Very well."

* * *

Watching Sherlock walk again was a great joy for Molly, especially when she remembered how low he had fallen emotionally during his recovery. Those had been very dark times indeed, but he had come quite far since then. He seemed to have found a new driving force in his life and Molly was very happy for him, even knowing that he would have to report back to base soon.

The morning before he was released from the hospital, Sherlock gifted her a tube of bright red lipstick. She hadn't been able to afford new lipstick and this was the exact shade and brand she had daydreamed about buying.

"H-How did you-?" She couldn't even get all of the question out in her surprise. Sherlock smirked at her in the way that he did whenever someone noticed his cleverness.

"I saw you compliment another nurse on her lipstick and it was easy to tell that you were envious. It only took a little bit of questioning to find out the shade and brand and a trusted accomplice to acquire it for me," he informed her, looking rather pleased with himself.

"Would this trusted accomplice be the same person who brought you this ring?" Molly held up her left hand and wiggled her fingers playfully.

"Yes."

"I must remember to thank Mary, then." Sherlock scowled at this, his nose scrunching endearingly.

"How did you know it was Mary?"

"She's the only other person in this hospital who would be willing to do any personal favours for you." There was a brief awkward pause before Sherlock responded.

"True."

"Anyway, it's lovely. Thank you very much, Sherlock." Molly pecked the pilot on the cheek and reveled at the way the tops of his ears went pink.

The following evening, Molly met Sherlock outside the hospital, wearing her best dress and the lipstick he had bought her. It was wonderful to see him standing there, looking as dashing as ever in his blue RAF uniform. He tipped his hat at her as she approached, making her heart flutter.

"You look...very nice," he greeted quietly. Molly knew that was practically the equivalent of an average man saying that she looked like a beautiful goddess, so she blushed brightly and stared at her feet.

"You're not so bad yourself," she half mumbled and Sherlock chuckled.

"Walk with me." He offered her his arm and she took it gladly, letting him lead her away from the hospital and down the street. His pace was slow due to not being quite used to walking, but Molly didn't mind.

"Where are we going?"

"A restaurant. You may recognize it as the one outside of which we first met. My brother helped the owner with a spot of bother once, so now our family can eat whatever we like there on the house. The food's actually good too." Molly knew Sherlock outwardly detested sentimentality, so she didn't comment on how sentimental taking her to the restaurant he'd been standing outside of when he had bumped into her was. Instead, she quietly appreciated it.

"That sounds lovely," she told him and they walked on through London, discussing the latest scientific articles that they had read the way most people would talk about sports or films. It was very companionable and it brought the sort of happiness between them that one isn't quite aware of at the time. It all felt so normal and right to Molly, strolling along on Sherlock's arm, listening to him ruthlessly critique some poor biologist's findings.

"I'm frankly horrified that it was cleared for publishing- ah, here we are." Sherlock suddenly stopped and Molly looked up. Deja vu overtook her. If the air had been chilly and the light a little dimmer, it would have been exactly as before. Her heart clenched with nostalgia and Sherlock smiled. "Come on." They went inside and were immediately given a table when the staff became aware of who Sherlock was. Molly had a difficult time choosing anything off the menu since it all looked so good, so when Sherlock ordered, she got the same.

When they got their meal, she found that her fiancé had made quite the understatement about that quality of the food. It wasn't just good. It was magical and that must have come across on her face because Sherlock smirked slyly at her when she looked up at him before he continued telling her about Air Commodore Lestrade and how he had had a deal with the man before the war that would allow him to become a consulting detective with Scotland Yard. She was fascinated by his stories about his teen years in which he had solved crimes in and around the village he was from and had driven the local constabulary up the wall by being better at their jobs than they were. His parents had been very proud of him, but his elder brother had always believed that he should exert his considerable brainpower on something "more worthy". Of course, Mycroft's idea of what was "more worthy" was King and Country, which was how Sherlock had ended up getting conscripted into the Royal Air Force.

"How do your parents feel about you being a pilot?" Molly asked before taking a sip from her wine glass. Sherlock grimaced.

"They're still proud, but they worry about me constantly," he answered uncomfortably. "I imagine your father also feels concern for you, since you spend so much time with men dying of terrible wounds."

"He does, but he should worry more about himself, since he's another of the dying men I have to look after."

"Oh," Sherlock gasped. Molly was surprised that this wasn't something he'd already figured out about her. Taking a deep breath, she explained to him about how her father had had delicate lungs ever since he had been in the trenches in the last war. He had gotten sick a few months ago and was getting worse everyday.

"I don't want to spoil our date, talking about unpleasant things. Let's talk about something nicer," Molly said, trying to get a smile to come back to her lips. Sherlock thankfully followed her prompt without comment.

"Where would you like to go after dinner? It's your turn to choose." Molly pondered the question for a long moment before answering.

"Well, there's this one bar I know of that employs women who don't wear very much. I've always been curious to see it." Sherlock's eyes went wide with shock and he stared at her silently until he realized the meaning of her mischievous grin.

"You're teasing me."

"Of course. It's the last place I'd ever take you." Molly reached out to place her hand over his to reassure him that she was joking. "The place I actually want to take you is a dance hall a few blocks from here...if that's okay with you." She watched him carefully for his reaction, knowing that it was entirely possible that he either hated dancing or just didn't feel up to it yet because of his stiff leg.

"It's perfect," he replied with a smile, to her relief. They finished eating and she eagerly led him out into the night.

**A/N: And there you have it. I'll try to get the next chapter to you all soon, but as always, I can't promise anything. Thank you for the kind words and support. I shall endeavor to continue to be worthy of them.**


	4. War Bride

**A/N: I'm extremely sorry that this took so long. I do hope this is well worth the wait.**

Chapter 4: War Bride

The dance hall was just the same as it had been when Molly Hooper had last been there, although this time she was with her brilliant fiancé and not some bloke who would later break things off with her after she made one too many morbid jokes. The music was upbeat and helped support her cheery mood, though she was nervous. Sherlock had told her that he loved dancing, but she worried that something might go wrong, either due to her own clumsiness or his body being unused to so much movement. If he was having any difficulty, however, he did not let it become apparent to her when they took to the dance floor. He grasped her hand firmly in his own and she discovered quickly that he was a very skilled dancer. It was not hard for her to move with him perfectly like two interlocking cogs in a machine.

"You're talented," she commented brightly and he grinned.

"You're not so bad yourself." She laughed at that and adjusted to a new and even faster song. Time seemed to fly around them and everything was lights, music, and Sherlock's beautiful smile. When Molly finally started to feel tired, the lights had grown softer and the music much slower. She rested her head against the side of Sherlock's neck as they held each other close and swayed together to the music. It was one of the most content moments of her life. "Someday I'll play my violin for you, Molly. I already have a tune forming in my mind," he whispered to her.

"I can hardly wait," she replied softly and Sherlock held her a little tighter. Just for a little while, she forgot about the war and how it was quite possible that the man she loved would one day soon go up in a plane and never come back. "Sherlock, I'd like you to meet my father," Molly murmured after a while. She didn't have the strength to add "before his last breath leaves his body" or even find the words for the implied concern for Sherlock's own life.

"I've no objections." The pilot stepped back from her, still holding her hand firmly, and gestured towards the exit, silently asking if she wanted to leave now. She nodded in return and they departed quietly.

There was more activity outside than there had been before. Other couples and groups of laughing friends lined the streets. It was odd to think of so many living normal, happy lives while young men were out there dying in droves. It was a reminder that they should cherish every second they had together and be grateful to have what they had.

Molly thought of how wonderful it was to be bringing Sherlock home with her. She had no worries about whether or not her father would like him. Even if her fiancé said a few rude things to him, he still be accepting of it, because his first concern had always been for her happiness and if Sherlock made her happy, then there was nothing more to be said on the subject.

"I deduced that you live with your father the first time I met you, you know," Sherlock commented as they arrived at her building.

"You didn't even come into the flat," Molly responded in astonishment.

"I saw enough." Sherlock smirked down at her and she giggled, pressing her cheek affectionately to his shoulder before retrieving her key for her coat pocket and unlocking the door to the flat.

"Dad, I'm home!" Molly called and a kind faced man in a wheelchair came into the front room. "Look who I've brought with me."

"You must be Molly's young man," Mr. Hooper greeted, offering out his hand, which Sherlock stepped forward to shake. "It's lovely to finally meet you, son. I've heard so much about you." The aging man gave a delighted smile that was strikingly similar to his daughter's and Molly could see that Sherlock had noticed from the way he seemed to relax a little at the sight of it.

"I've heard much about you as well, Mr. Hooper." He of course referred to the account of Mr. Hooper's adventures in the last war and his subsequent illness.

"Spinning tales about me again, eh Molls?" her father teased with a giggle and she rolled her eyes playfully.

"I only tell the the stories the same way you told them to me, dad," she replied.

"That's my girl. I'll be sorry not to be able see your wedding." Molly's smile faltered at that, reflected the way her heart broke for her father for the thousandth time. Sherlock must have picked up on her distress, because she felt his hand suddenly rest gently on her waist.

"It's alright. We understand, don't we Sherlock?"

"Of course. It wasn't going to be anything big anyway," the pilot reassured. It was fortunate that they both felt that marriage was something of a private affair and didn't want to put themselves on display for others.

"As long as you're happy," Mr. Hooper responded, his wrinkly grin widening. "Now, young man, I'd like to hear all about what it's like to be a pilot these days. Quite a bit different from my day, I'd imagine." Molly's father gestured for Sherlock to take a seat in the nearby armchair. Sherlock obliged and began to talk about the new planes and what was really going on in the war, giving his honest perspective, which was quite a bit different from what was in the papers. Mr. Hooper listened with a look of silent understanding in his eyes. Both men had seen things no one ought to have seen and Molly could tell that it was helping them bond.

She remained silent as they talked, busying herself with making a pot of tea. It warmed her heart to see her father and her fiancé take such an instant liking to each other and the longer their conversation went on, the more it seemed as if great weight was being lifted from their shoulders.

When Mr. Hooper finally dosed off in his wheelchair, Molly quietly put him to bed and returned to the sitting room to find Sherlock fiddling with his cap. It wasn't hard to guess that he thought it would time for him to leave soon and was reluctant to go.

"You can stay," Molly told him, gently taking his hat from his grasp and placing it on a hook by the front door. Sherlock appeared to be a little astonished by this. "It's not as if we're going to get up to anything, is it?" she joked, coaxing a smirk from him.

"No, I suppose not." He took a tentative step forward and placed a hand on her should. There was a particular softness in his eyes as he gazed down at her. It was appreciation, she realized with a sudden rush of affection. She blushed and stood on her tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to his lips. It was pure heaven, the way they melted together. Molly slid her arms around Sherlock's neck and brushed her tongue along his upper lip. He parted his lips and let her show him how to kiss like sweet fire. A small whimper escaped him and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. He looked a little dazed when she eventually pulled back for air.

"You alright?" she asked.

"I...I never thought it could be like that," he breathed. Those words pulled hard on Molly's heartstrings. They were yet another reminder of the fact that this grizzled warrior of a young man still had enough naivete in him to react that way.

"You liked it, then?" she whispered and she received her answer in the form of another kiss. Her heart soared and she struggled to keep her footing with all the passion he put into the act. "I love you," she blurted out when they separated. Their fingers found each other and laced together, linking them as they shuffled into Molly's bedroom. They were both tired, Sherlock especially, and wanted nothing more than to be close. Molly stepped out of her pumps and Sherlock began to loosen his tie, which reminded her that he hadn't anything to sleep in. "Hold on. I'll fetch dad's spare pajamas. I'm sure he won't mind." With a parting smile, she quickly went to get the clothes and when she came back, Sherlock was already down to his pants. She was a little alarmed at first, but she quickly recovered. She had seen a lot more as his nurse. He took the pajamas silently, not speaking until she began to undress herself.

"Do you want me to avert my eyes?" he asked. Under different circumstances, she would have said yes, but Sherlock was her fiancé and she considered it important for them to be comfortable with each other like this.

"No, it's fine," Molly told him, giving him a reassuring smile.

"Would you like help with your dress?" There was something rather liberating about the fact that, with Sherlock, that question didn't carry any underlying expectations or lecherous intent. Molly's smile broadened and she nodded in response, turning her back to him. He stepped forward and carefully undid her zipper before backing away again to give her space.

"Thanks. Sometimes it can take a real feat of acrobatics to get in and out of these sorts of dresses." Sherlock laughed at that and whatever hint of tension there had been before was banished completely. Molly soon slipped into her nightgown and climbed under the sheets of her bed, inviting Sherlock to join her and take up what little remained of the space on the small bed. He quietly slid in next to her and they wrapped their arms around each other. "You know, this isn't how first dates usually end," she commented.

"Oh." Sherlock seemed a bit downcast, as if he thought he had disappointed her somehow.

"That's not to say unusual is always bad. In this case, I'd say it's perfect." That satisfied him, though Molly added a kiss for good measure. He carded his long fingers through her hair as they talked of everything and nothing until they had both dozed off.

* * *

Sherlock and Molly did not wait long to get married. They didn't really have the option to, what with his standing order to return to active duty quite soon. After officially announcing their engagement to John Watson and Mary Morstan, their friends suggested that they have a double wedding. It wasn't much trouble, so they agreed and Molly and Mary went off to spend an entire evening resolving the matter of dresses. Sherlock and John spent that same evening in pubs in which they both managed to get drunk for the first time in their lives. They both heavily regretted it in the morning, thanks to monstrous hangovers. Molly then took pity on Sherlock and spent the time to make sure he had everything he needed to recover before she went to work.

The following day, Sherlock found himself standing beside an extremely beautiful Molly Hooper. Her white dress framed her perfectly, he noted as he stared at her while the officiator spoke. Her cheeks turned an endearing rosy pink when she caught him.

The exchange of rings seemed more official to Sherlock than anything else about the ceremony. After all, it was a tangible symbol of their union, one which would be forever there to remind him that his life was shared with person he trusted most in the entire world.

When they were pronounced husband and wife, Sherlock pulled back Molly's thin veil and she practically pounced on him, bringing them into a kiss that was perhaps a little too passionate for a simple wedding, though neither of them cared in the slightest.

Afterwards, the two pairs of newlyweds posed for photos. The photographer only managed to get one where Sherlock was looking at the camera instead of his wife. The was something overwhelming mesmerizing to him about Molly's appearance. It was like she was glowing with happiness. She never seemed to stop smiling.

That evening, there was free dinner at Angelo's and for the first time, the four of them really got to spend time together as a group of friends. It was rather remarkable to think that they had all been brought together by grim circumstances and now they were each of them married and telling stories and laughing with on another, quality food and wine laid out between them.

Of course, the merriment could not last forever. They would have to return to their dark lives sooner or later. Unfortunately for them, it would be sooner.

Sherlock was extremely reluctant to leave Molly's bed the next morning. They were tangled together under the sheets in warmth and safety and the pilot had never slept better than he had when he had gotten into the habit of falling asleep with Molly's petite form in his arms. If he got up, it would be a long time indeed before he ever felt that kind of security again.

Still, he managed to drag himself to his feet when Molly reminded him of the consequences should he fail to report for duty on time. He put himself through half the motions of getting into his uniform before Molly decided to help the rest of the way. He then returned the favour by doing up the front buttons of her frock for her.

Mr. Hooper made a point to shake Sherlock's hand and wish him luck before the couple left that morning. Though the pilot remained stoic about it, he was in truth rather touched. An odd, undefinable feeling twinged in his gut as left the flat with Molly, who wanted to see him off properly.

They caught a cab to the train station and spent the entire ride tightly holding hands, as if in anticipation of the separation that was to come. The platform was quite busy when they arrived. There were many other young men in various military uniforms throughout the dense crowd. Steam clouded the air and Sherlock made sure that Molly stayed close, not wanting her to be swept away and lost among the masses.

When he stepped onto the train, he felt his wife's fingers slip out from between his and he felt a brief burst of panic until he remembered that of course she wasn't coming with him. He quickly got himself settled in the nearest compartment and then threw open the window to lean out and call to her.

"Molly!" She turned sharply at the sound of his voice and beamed, hurrying over to him and taking his outstretched hand.

"Don't you die out there, Sherlock Holmes. Take care of yourself," the nurse urged. "And don't forget to write."

"Don't worry about me, Molly. I know what I'm doing and I wouldn't dream neglecting you. I wouldn't do for me to survive the war only to be killed by my own wife for leaving her in the dark and making her worry," Sherlock teased in return and Molly smirked.

"You know me well, Group Captain Holmes."

"I do indeed Mrs. Holmes. It is my prerogative, after all." Sherlock punctuated his words with a soft kiss as he leaned further out of the window to reach Molly. The kiss grew much more desperate at the sound of the last call to board. This would be their last moment together for some time, if not forever by some tragedy, and neither of them could quite bear the thought of it ending. Nevertheless, they were soon torn from each other by the forward motion of the train. Molly's whispered 'I love you' echoed in Sherlock's mind as he gazed back at her while the train took him away, a look of distant fear in his eyes, not at her words, but at the thought of never hearing them again.

**A/N: Sorry for the short length. The next chapter will be made up mostly, if not entirely, of letters between Sherlock and Molly. I don't know when I'll have it done. My health is poor and it's final exam time for me, neither of which are things conducive to productivity, so please bear with me.**


End file.
